Page 54 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Thirty-One

Shan

S han strode through the narrow hallways, her head held high and her robes fluttering behind her.

The cells to either side were filled with the unmistakable scent of unwashed bodies, prisoners kept in the darkness beneath Dameral’s largest Guard station, waiting for the next available court date.

They were packed several to a cell, hardly bothering to look at which Blood Worker moved past them.

What difference would it make, when the Guard had been through again and again, an endless rotation that signified nothing.

Perhaps Samuel had been right about the conditions they were keeping the Unblooded in. Perhaps her solution had left a gap open for the Guard to exploit. Perhaps there was something—anything—she could be doing. Hells knew that Samuel had tried and failed.

But she was balanced on the thin blade of a knife, and the slightest step out of place would bring all her plans to a screeching halt.

There was no way she could risk that, so she took the despair and guilt in her heart and buried it away.

This was just another thing on her list, a problem she would solve, when the time was right.

The list was growing so long, worse with each passing day, but she wouldn’t think of it now. Not when she had come here for a very specific reason.

She reached the stairs at the end of the hallway, dipping even deeper into the earth.

The ward, yet another layer of protection, rippled around her, responding to the ring the Warden had given her.

It was heavy on her thumb, glittering like a row of rubies, but it wasn’t gemstones embedded in the band of gold.

It was a series of droplets, blood from specific Blood Workers, a pass key that granted her access to the deepest dungeons.

Where they kept the worst of all criminals, and for whatever reason, that included Monique Lovell.

Shan didn’t question it, not openly. The Royal Blood Worker wouldn’t. She was here to press the prisoner for information, an implicit understanding that had the Warden grinning slyly as she ignored the shame that rose, thick and burning like bile, in the back of her throat.

The bottom-most floor had the low tang of musk and sweat, a smell that was almost rancid.

The air had a cool, slick feeling to it, the walls dripping with condensation, fat droplets of water budding on freezing stone.

It was worse than the Blood Treasury—that was controlled, that had a purpose.

This was intentional cruelty, done to make the prisoners suffer, and Shan deliberately turned her face from it.

The cells here were different from the ones before.

Above, they had been separated by iron bars, open to the hallway.

They allowed the prisoners to speak to each other, a brief bit of connection in an otherwise hellish experience.

This floor was worse, the cells being entire rooms walled off from the rest of the space.

Utter solitude, a creeping kind of insanity, a suffering that Shan knew she would never fully understand.

Monique—the Matron—was in the furthest cell, and Shan pulled her key ring from where it hung on her belt, the large lock clicking free under her hand. She didn’t allow herself to hesitate, entering the room and closing the door behind her.

The Matron was sitting on the small cot, hardly fit for its purpose, lacking a mattress or cushions.

Her back was pressed against the stone wall, legs tucked up to her chest, face pressed into her knees.

Gone was the precise and dignified woman that Shan had known for years, replaced by someone so raw and disheveled that Shan hardly recognized her.

Her hair hung in loose, tangled knots down her back, her skin sallow.

The fine, prim dresses that she wore around the Fox Den had been replaced by a coarse shift of grey—even from across the room Shan saw how rough the fabric was.

It must chafe against the skin, another little indignity to be suffered.

Monique glanced up as the door clicked closed, recognition flashing through her eyes, followed by a quick succession of disbelief, fury, and resignation. A woman who had been recognized that she had been played, and worst yet, that there was nothing she could do about it.

Shan didn’t interrupt her processing, knowing that nothing she could say would make it any easier. She had built herself up on a web of lies, and as more strands got snipped beneath her, Shan feared there would be nothing left to keep her from falling into the darkness.

“I should have known,” Monique said, her voice low and rasping.

Dry, no doubt, the simple necessity of water another method of control and punishment.

“Your resources were too great, your age too young.” She closed her eyes.

“Anton—and the Aberforth. Fuck, Sparrow. You were so eager to throw it all away for power, weren’t you? ”

It was an understandable assumption. If the positions were reversed, Shan would have thought something similar. But it still hurt, the understanding that no matter what she came to achieve, she would be looked upon with distrust and fear, and worst of all, she had brought it on herself.

She reached for that serenity that always served her so well, especially when she felt so raw, wrapping it around herself like a veil of protection, so desperately needed.

“Monique,” she began, only to be cut off by the woman’s hiss.

“Don’t. You haven’t earned my first name.” Her face was twisted into a sneer so extreme, so daring, that Shan choked on her words. “You’re not my friend.”

“I… understand, Miss Lovell.” A bit of the strain eased away, but Miss Lovell wasn’t relaxed, probably wouldn’t be relaxed around Shan again.

“Hmm, at least you still have your manners.” The older woman leaned her head against the stone wall. “But why are you here? Did the Royal Blood Worker herself feel the need to come and gloat?”

“It’s not that,” Shan attempted, the explanation hanging on her lips, if only the Matron would let her.

“Then what is it?” Miss Lovell bared her teeth in a snarl.

“I’m not telling you anything, if you think you have leverage against me.

I know you have your own networks, Sparrow.

” She spat the name, and it cut like a blade straight to Shan’s heart.

“I’m sure you can find what you need, if you look hard enough. ”

“Stop!” Shan snapped, the last bit of her control shattering. “I came here to apologize. This was never supposed to happen to you!”

The confession hung between them, as stark and startling as a scream, but Miss Lovell only cackled. Her laugh was wild and unrestrained, her entire body trembling from the force of it, and Shan could only watch on in shock.

“You’re sorry?” Miss Lovell repeated. “You’re fucking sorry? You are really a fool, my lady, if you did not see this coming.”

Shan clenched her jaw, refusing to take the bait, but the Matron wasn’t done.

“I don’t know what kind of games you’re caught up in, Sparrow, but there are consequences to your actions.

” She rose to her feet, standing on unsteady legs, though if that was the fury or the effects of what the Guard had done to her, Shan couldn’t be sure.

“And it’s never you who will have to pay them. ”

She had heard this all before, knew it in her bones. But to confront it was a different matter entirely, and unlike her brother, there was no way she could save the Matron. There was nothing she could do but apologize, but what good were words at this point?

She had nothing else to offer.

“I’m sorry,” she tried again, only for Miss Lovell to cross the room and slam her fist into the wall beside Shan’s head. Frail as she was, she still towered over Shan, the pure weight of her anger a palpable force—and though it wasn’t enough to intimidate Shan, it did shame her.

“Your apology means nothing, Sparrow,” Miss Lovell whispered, her voice as soft and smooth as silk. “You came here to assuage your own guilt, but you won’t be getting forgiveness from me.”

“I understand,” Shan breathed, and Miss Lovell pushed away, stalking to the other side of the room, only a scant few feet away. She crossed her arms across her chest, managing to summon her dignity—a glimmer of the proud, strong woman she was.

That she would be, till the very end.

“If you do have any affection in your heart for me,” Miss Lovell said, “if any of your schemes were true, please leave and never return. Whatever happens, I do not wish to see your face again.”

It was cruel, and there was a finality to it, a sense of judgement as unyielding and unerring as justice.

In the eyes of Miss Lovell, there would be no possibility of atonement.

And, in all honesty, Shan agreed with her.

She had been a fool to think she could have it both ways, and it was time for her to commit.

All she could do was hope that this debasement would be worth that. That—no matter the price that she had to pay or the people she had to lose—it would all be worth it. That losing her brother, losing Isaac, would be worth it. She had done it once, she could do it again.

Did she even have a heart left to break?

She didn’t dare speak again, slipping through the door without so much as a glance back. As she locked the door, it felt like she was condemning Miss Lovell to her death, locking her away where she would never be seen again.

It was the truth after all. They planned to hold her down here till the world forgot about her, draining her blood again and again.

Shan pressed her forehead against the cool metal, eyes prickling with the tears she dared not shed.